


My Brother, My Captain, My King

by minumi



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Angst, Durin Family, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Tarantino style story-telling
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-01-05
Updated: 2015-01-05
Packaged: 2018-03-05 13:08:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 597
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3121316
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/minumi/pseuds/minumi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fíli has been named Thorin’s heir. In his eagerness to grow up and fulfill that role, he has forgotten the ones he already had. Tragedy serves him a cruel reminder, at the expense of the two dwarflings whom he has never failed . . . until now.</p>
            </blockquote>





	My Brother, My Captain, My King

**Author's Note:**

> **A/N:** Get in, readers. We’re going to Tarantino this!  
>  Also for context purposes, the boys are the human equivalent of Fíli: 14, Kíli: 11, Gimli: 9

 

* * *

 

 

His leg is torn off.

 

Surely muscle, sinew and bone must have ripped free of his body during his violent descent-- or else this storm of agony would not be crashing upon him. His sobbing settles only when bile claws its way out of his throat along with the meager contents of his stomach. It is many long minutes, though it feels like hours-- _days_ \-- before he is able to take something akin to a steady breath.

 

Sharp pebbles of iron ore have made a bed of his palms, sleeping snugly in blankets of shredded skin. Picking them out only intensifies the pain, so he lets them be. He wipes the warm wetness from his eyes, careful to ignore the red smear on the back of his hand.

 

Elbows-- he can make it onto his elbows. Fire flares up somewhere below his knee, tearing through his body, reducing him to sobs once more.

 

_Mahal_. He is never walking again. He is going to be a cripple. He is never going to be found down here. He is going to die in this darkness alone. He is going to--

 

A sharp wail throws him out of his spiraling fears. He stills, listening over his own hitching breathes.

 

“Fíli! F- _Fíli_ ~!”

 

“KĺLI!” He draws strength from his younger brother’s call, “Kíli-- Where are you? Can you walk?”

 

“Fíli? Fíli! Where are you? I cannot see! _Fíli_ ~!”

 

“Follow my voice, Kíli!”

 

Steps echo around him, bouncing off  walls and concaves, up towards invisible ceilings, and back down into shadowed chasms. If he could not tell where his brother’s footfalls were coming from--

 

“Fíli! Where are you? I cannot find you! _Fíli_ ~! Please do not leave me--”

 

“ _Kíli_!”

 

The urgency in his voice silences his younger brother. Their echoes die off to make way for a tense calm.

 

“I am not going _anywhere_ without you, Kíli,” he swallows thickly, “Stay where you are and _I_ will find _you_. Can you do that for me?”

 

Silence.

 

“Kíli?!”

 

“A-Aye, I-I can . . .”

 

“Alright, I am coming for you. Do not move, but you must speak to me, else I won’t be able to find you.”

 

His hands sweep across cold stone until he finds a vertical surface to use for leverage. He struggles to pull to himself upright. The darkness rings with his anguished cry.

 

It seems his leg is indeed still attached to his body, for good or ill.

 

“F-Fíli?”

 

When he is able to breathe again, he pushes off the wall and searches the rubble covered floor for a suitable crutch, “I’m here, I’m coming for you. Just-- sit tight--”

 

He yelps as he nearly falls reaching for a brittle pick axe in the lonely dark.

 

“You’re hurt!” Kíli’s call mingles with his strangled groans, a macabre chorus bouncing back and forth around them.

 

“Aye,” he admits, teeth clenching so hard he just may break his jaw to give his leg some company. “What-- What about you?”

 

“M-My arm . . . I think it’s b-broken.”

 

“We will make a sling when I get-- get to you.” But instead of comfort, his words inspire weeping.

 

“F-Fíli-- What if I-I cannot use my b-bow anymore?”

 

Rage pierces through him, ushered by a deluge of guilt.  He slams a balled fist against stone.

 

“ _Iklifumun!_ ”

 

He must breathe. Breathe through the pain. Breathe through the anger. Fight back the despair.

 

“Fíli?”

 

For long moments all Fíli hears is his own panting, “Tell me, Kíli.”

 

A sob.

 

“Kíli?”

 

_“Where is Gimli?”_

 

He trips over the axle of a broken cart, and the mines quake with the sounds of anguish.

 

* * *

  
  



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